This House Was … Nice.
“Let’s go visit my sister,” Larry said one day. “It’ll be a nice ride.”
“Where’s your sister?” I asked. Up until this point, I’d only met Larry’s two brothers. He also had two sisters, which I’d kind of forgotten about.
“Vero Beach,” he said. A beach! I thought. In spite of our prior beach experience, I was still trying to live my elusive dream.
We hopped on the motorcycle and got on the highway. It wasn’t a pretty drive, and it lasted hours and hours. We didn’t stop to drink beer on the way. We just kept riding. I got sunburned and my butt hurt, but we eventually arrived.
I looked up, confused.
Larry’s sister, Diane, lived in a house, but somehow it wasn’t like Larry’s house. It had a green manicured lawn and a little porch out front. There were painted shutters decorating the windows, a storm door on the front door, and shrubbery where the red anthills should have been.
This house was … nice.
We clomped up to the porch in our boots and I suddenly felt underdressed. Larry threw his cigarette behind the bushes and told me to do the same.
Diane opened the door. She had short, dark hair and a big-toothed smile. She hugged Larry before he walked inside, then she hugged me, too, even though she didn’t yet know my name.
Diane was extremely welcoming. “Ed took Julie out so we’d have some time to chat,” she said with a slight southern drawl, letting me know she was married with a baby.
And that Diane maybe didn’t want us near them.
We walked into the kitchen, where Diane poured us both iced tea. I don’t like iced tea but I was afraid to be rude, so I held it. I did not smoke. There was no smoking in this house.
Even though it wasn’t like Larry’s house, it felt familiar. Whole-house air conditioning. Magazines on the coffee table. Live plants in front of windows. Little throw pillows on the couch.
We sat down on wicker stools at the kitchen island and I glanced around, still confused. I couldn’t quite label how I felt here.
I thought maybe it was Diane – something about her. But when I looked at Diane, I only thought: she’s so OLD. Since my sisters are both younger than me, I somehow expected Larry’s sister to be younger than me, too. But Diane was older than Larry.
She was over 40 – older than my parents! That was ancient.
Larry and Diane talked about Danny and Timmy mostly; she hadn’t seen her Pittsburgh brothers for awhile. While they talked I scanned the room, sipped at my tea and tried not to engage.
Suddenly it hit me: this house was clean.
It was big, and clean, and well-maintained. It was a family house, one that someone meticulously decorated and kept nice. This house screamed “suburban life.” This was the kind of house that kept people warm and cool and safe and dry. This house was absolutely beautiful.
This house was like my parents’ house.
Suddenly I hated this house. With every ounce of my being, I just wanted to leave, to smoke, to drink. I sat with my tea and waited. And waited. And waited. When Diane left the room, I pulled Larry aside and begged him to take me home, which he did – back to that tiny, roach-infested house with its scraggly lawn, dirt, dust and grime, and the complacent stench of mold, urine and stale cigarettes.
I just wanted to feel comfortable again.